


Flightless Birds

by E_Live



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Eye Trauma, Injury Recovery, M/M, Original Character(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Polyamory, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2016-08-11
Packaged: 2018-07-29 21:12:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7699801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_Live/pseuds/E_Live
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Griffith Erhart is a private pilot for Overwatch, little more than a glorified chauffeur and about as popular with the agents as an antisocial bookworm was with the varsity football team. When he takes a severe injury to the head, the last thing he expected was it to make them like him more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lift Off

**Author's Note:**

> Super nervous to finally start posting this. I hope you all enjoy!

Griffith Erhart’s life was routine, if he wanted to sum it up in one word. He had a set cycle he followed, whether consciously or not. Humans were creatures of habit, after all; give them a set path, and they’ll usually opt to follow it.

Yes, Griffith’s life was pretty routine, even if that routine  wasn’t a very  _ normal  _ one.

Wake up. Make a pot of coffee. Maybe eat a little something. Go on a jog, return before the day’s heat really gets going. Waste some time until lunch. Work on one of several pet projects in the hangar until later in the evening. Eat a rushed dinner, go back to working in the hangar. Wait until the clock reads some ungodly time in the morning, hit the showers to clean off the day’s filth. Maybe do some light reading, fall asleep. Get up and repeat.

Now, that in itself was nothing outstanding. What made the routine not so normal was that at any moment, Griffith could be subject to flying a handful of Overwatch agents to some random location anywhere in this budding disaster known as the world.

Now was one of these moments. Standing outside the loading hatch on the beast of a ship lovingly named the Rig, Griffith leaned against her solid hull. Full, chapped lips nursed a cigarette in the golden morning light. 

Inhale. Exhale. 

The smoke curled, swirled, and dissipated in the brisk air that carried just enough chill to make the bomber jacket comfortable. It hung slightly from Griffith’s small frame, easily a size or two too big. His free hand tugged at the collar of the jacket, a sliver of the morning’s cold nipping at the pale skin of his freckled throat. 

The salty sea breeze tousled wavy fox-red locks that positively burned in the sunlight, the near-undercut significantly shortening on the back and sides. Uneven stubble sprouted from a soft jaw, Griffith having forgotten to shave the night previous. Dark bags hung above his spotted cheeks, stark against his skin. He hadn’t got much sleep that night. Too much to do, ideas bouncing around in that head of his. His eyes, light and clear, were the color of ashes resting at the bottom of a fire pit. Those smoky eyes were currently fixed on a door at the far end of the small open space reserved for launching and landing the Rig. They’d come from that door, filing out to trot along into his ship for another ride to whatever destination awaited them this time.

The door opened for a split second. Just as Griffith had registered the motion and moved to straighten his posture, a flit of blue light crossed the space between him, and suddenly there was something -  _ someone  _ \- blocking his line of sight. The young man nearly jumped out of his jacket when a high, chipper voice pierced the quiet of the picturesque morning.

“Griffith! Good morning, love, how are you today?” Asked none other than the time-skipping anomaly herself, Lena “Tracer” Oxton. One of the youngest and most talented pilots Overwatch had ever had the pleasure of calling their own pre-shutdown (and probably  _ still _ ), she was a talented gal that Griffith really admired as a fellow flier. Though, that was his job now, since the girl was more often needed on the ground and in the fray. Griffith smiled at who was probably his best friend within a couple hundred miles radius as he blew a mouthful of smoke away from the cheery Brit. She wrinkled her nose cutely with distaste. The man was fully aware of her dislike of his smoking, and he politely chose that moment to toss what little was left of the cigarette and snuff it under the heel of his thick leather boots.

“Good morning to you too, Tracer. I’m not too bad,” He answered slowly. She gave him a disbelieving look as her sharp eyes gave him a once-over, honey brown behind the thick lens of her signature goggles. He was disheveled, and more than what the oceanic winds could be blamed for. Griffith shifted, shoving his hands his pockets and looking away, nonchalant.

“Really? Because it looks to me like you were up all night again,” She tossed an arm over the slightly shorter man’s shoulder, playfully giving the redhead a noogie. “And I thought I told you to call me Lena!” 

With a snort, Griffith ducked out of her grasp, fending off those tricky hands.

“You know the most inspired ideas come running on a lack of sleep.”

Lena stopped reaching after that unruly red hair and gave the younger man a wry grin.

“Lucky for you, I do.” The two stood quietly for a few moments as Griffith fixed himself, Lena watching him curiously as he tugged at the front of his jacket, not too dissimilar in appearance from the agent’s own. Only, his obviously wasn’t outfitted with a big old chronal accelerator. “So, are you gonna finally say hi today?”

Griffith rolled his ashen eyes and sighed.

“Not this stuff again!”

“What? I’m just genuinely wondering if you’re going to do it this time,” She countered, resting her hands on her cocked hips. The sun peaked over the horizon and moved into position so that it shone hard on the two. Squinting, Griffith pulled out a pair of sunglasses that had been hanging precariously from one breast pocket. Putting them on felt like safety, his open and telling gaze hidden behind the reflective amber lenses. 

“I’ll say good morning if you’ll leave me alone about it after that,” Griffith offers, though his tone is light and tolerant. He knew the young woman only had his best interests in mind. In the time they’d known each other, Lena had always seemed to be rooting for him from his corner. It was reassuring, to say the least.

“Deal!” Lena accepted, holding out her hand to shake on the compromise. Griffith’s own gloved hand moved to take hers, when the sound of the door opening once again interrupted. Griffith subconsciously retracted his hand, drawing in on himself as the other agents piled out into the morning light.

_ ‘There they are,’  _ Griffith thought to himself forlornly. The select few that had responded to the recall so many months ago, new faces scattered amongst the old. Their numbers were far fewer than they had been in the Golden Age of Overwatch, but they were a very skilled bunch, not to be taken lightly. Griffith should know, having seen the action from far above, in the safety of the Rig. Next to their credentials, he was hardly anything but an Iowa boy that was a little more talented with an aircraft than the average Joe. It was humbling, if not a bit intimidating.

Today, the group was Hanzo, McCree, Lucio, Mercy, and apparently Tracer. She must have gone ahead to greet him, Griffith surmised. Winston also appeared from behind the door, but Griffith was mildly surprised when he continued towards them. It wasn’t often the scientist left the base. He had started to do so more, according to Tracer, once the younger pilot had been signed on as their personal transport. Not many places took too kindly to an 800 pound gorilla just wandering about, afterall.

A knot formed in Griffith’s gut as the group approached. Lena elbowed the pilot subtly, and he responded with a far less discreet nudge in return, exchanging a nervous smile with the girl. She dipped her spiky head at them encouragingly. Swallowing back his nerves, Griffith turned to face the oncoming group, a smile forming on his face. He opened his mouth.

_ ‘I’m going to do it. I’m going to talk to them.’ _

“Good morni--” Griffith cut off as Hanzo, who had been leading the line, snarled and shoved McCree, who was right behind him. The gunman held his hands up in a show surrender. The stout Japanese man looked just short of livid. That certainly wasn’t encouraging. Griffith’s nerve wilted. 

Turning, Hanzo’s gaze landed momentarily on the pilot. It was searing, like the end of a branding rod, and Griffith froze. He half feared the man would unleash his wrath upon him for observing the brief spat, and that was something Griffith knew he certainly  _ didn’t  _ want to invoke. He’d witnessed those dragons a handful of times from a distance, and had no desire to see them up close. But if Hanzo took offense to being watched, he made no comment, his gaze instead passing into the mouth of the ship that awaited him for transport. He stormed onto the Rig, walking right past Griffith without so much as another glance. 

“Shimada!” McCree called after Hanzo, following him aboard. It was as if he wasn’t even there. Any remnants of a smile dropped off of his freckled features as the others followed aboard, Lucio and Mercy were engaged in conversation while Winston lagged behind, his superior strength allowing him to carry several heavy cases full of expensive scientific equipment. He smiled at his old friend, greeting Lena with a cheery attitude. It was obvious that he was excited for the day’s work. 

“Gorgeous morning, isn’t it, Lena?”

“It sure is, Winston! Fine weather for flying!”

Griffith felt like that was supposed to be his cue, but his mouth stayed closed. His jaw may as well had been wired shut.

“Fine weather for some research, too! Let’s hope it holds up,” Winston said genially, hauling the cases up into the ship with a noisy clatter. “Looks like next week won’t be so nice. Nasty storms coming in.”

As Winston retreated into the Rig, Griffith could feel Lena’s gaze on him. He didn’t return it, instead making his way towards the loading door. A cloud passed lazily between the sun and the earth, cutting off its warming rays.

“Sorry, Tracer. Maybe next time,” he apologized. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

She didn’t say anything as she followed him aboard. Everyone had already cleared the cargo hold besides Winston, who was too busy securing his equipment to pay them much mind. Passing through the large doorway, he stopped long enough to flip the hatch switch, the large platform groaning as it raised behind them and closed the Rig from the outside world. Moving towards the front of the ship, Griffith noticed that everyone else had begun to settle in the seats that lined either side of the passenger cabin. Idle chatter filled the generously spacious room, and as he walked down the aisle, Griffith received nothing more than passing glances. He ignored the twist in his chest, crossing into the humble galley that the Rig had to offer. The ship may not have been the most comely aircraft, but she was outfitted with the necessities; back towards the cargo hold there was a lavatory, and hidden away was a small door to a room that was hardly more than a walk-in closet, holding a handful of some of the Iowan’s belongings and a sleeping cot. To Griffith, she was home.

Opening the heavy door that separated the cockpit from the rest of the ship, the pilot wordlessly allowed Lena to follow him in, shutting the door behind her. She stood next to the pilot’s seat, leaning heavily against it as Griffith took his place. Comfort followed suit. This was familiar. Flying was practically second nature to the man; he had learned to fly a plane before he had known how to drive a car. Flipping a couple switches, the entire ship gave a pleasant purr as she roared to life, the thrusters beginning to ignite from the underbelly. Giving it a minute to warm up, Lena pouted over the back of the seat.

“You know, I really do think they’d like you,” she said. Griffith sighed.

“I really don’t care, Tracer. It’s no big deal whether they like me or not, as long as I’m doing my job,” Griffith excused. He plucked a headset from its perch on one of several joysticks. He settled it onto his head and turned it on, adjusting the mic. He never used it, but it was connected to the ones the rest of the team wore during their missions. Anything that happened on the ground worth reporting, he’d hear.

“Aw, c’mon love! Don’t be like that,” Lena complained sadly, frowning deeply. She knew that Griffith  _ did  _ care. He admired the agents deeply, but rather than socialize, the pilot kept to himself, too shy to try and talk to anyone. It had taken the young woman a lot of prying and patience to get this close to the aloof redhead. 

“Please, Lena,” Griffith pleaded, fatigued. He rubbed at his face with one hand. He was too young to feel this tired. “Just drop it.”

Lena allowed it to slide, only because he had used her real name. The pair fell into silence as Griffith messed with the complex controls of the Rig, and the thrusters rumble carried louder as the aircraft began to lift. 

“Hold on,” he muttered to Lena as he drew back on one of the levers, and she stabilized herself on the back of the chair as the ship hefted herself off the ground. 

Routine. Griffith could do this with his eyes closed, he knew the control panel of the Rig like the back of his hand. He found solace in routine. It was easy, comfortable. The lines of stress on his brow relaxed as he pulled another lever, and the Rig lurched forward. Lena scrabbled to not fall backwards, and Griffith chuckled, those grey eyes lit with mirth.

“Told ya to hold on.”

The ship’s flight smoothed quickly as they took off, soon clearing the Gibraltar cliffs that overlooked the Mediterranean Sea. Lifting higher into the air, Griffith ceased to climb altitude once they were above cloud level. The view could only be described as breath-taking. 

Beneath them, the Mediterranean glittered in the morning’s light, a picture painted with azures and golds. The sky opened up, a pastel watercolor canvas that ranged from a soft orange to indigo. The expansive canopy of the cockpit gave an unrestricted view of the stars still visible, twinkling from light years away. Clouds were stained salmon as they caught the morning rays. Griffith felt a smile tug at his lips.

“What a lovely morning for flying,” Lena mumbled as she rested her chin on her palm, elbow propped behind Griffith. He nodded in agreement. 

They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes before a knock at the door drew their attention. Lena twisted the hatch handle and pushed it open, revealing the timeless face of the one and only Dr. Angela “Mercy” Ziegler. She tugged absently at the skirt of her outfit, halo befitting like that of a crown on a queen. As he took her in, Griffith could only think her beauty enough to rival the sky’s. Setting the Rig into auto-pilot while on course, Griffith turned in his seat curiously. 

“Good morning, Mr. Erhart!” Mercy greeted pleasantly. Griffith could feel his face warm, ducking his head. He played it off as a nod, instead. 

“And to you, Dr. Ziegler.” Talking to her wasn’t difficult, but it was hardly ever anything personal. A man had to get his medical check ups every once in awhile.

“I’m sure you’re using that sunscreen like I told you?” She asked, in reference to her concern of his overly UV-sensitive skin. He was mildly caught off guard by the question, but didn’t miss the large grin on Lena’s face.

“Uh, y-yes ma’am. Doctor’s orders and all,” He replied, turning back towards the open sky shyly. He missed the small, almost fond smile that played at Mercy’s lips, before she turned to Lena.

“We’re going over the ground plans again before we arrive,” Mercy addressed her. “I’d appreciate it if you’d join us.”

“Alright, I’ll be out in a jiff!” Lena sung. Mercy nodded.

“It was nice seeing you, Mr. Erhart. You know my office is always open. Don’t be such a stranger.” With that, she took her leave. The quiet in the cockpit only lasted a few moments, before Lena was crowing.

“ _ See? _ What did I tell you, Griffith? They want to get to know you!” She grabbed his shoulders and shook him excitedly. Griffith had to stop her, it was going to make him dizzy.

“That doesn’t mean much, Tracer,” he said lamely. Lena frowned when he didn’t use her first name. “She’s a doctor. I’m her patient. It’s her duty to keep an eye on me. Her being friendly is about as surprising as water being wet.” Lena’s frown deepened, annoyed.

“Agh! You’re such a  _ pessimist, _ ” she griped, punching him in the shoulder. There was no actual power behind the hit.

“Hey, being a pessimist is a good thing. Either I’m right, or pleasantly surprised.”

“Fine then, Mr. Pessimist. Be like that.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

Lena stuck her tongue out at him before taking her leave, slamming the door even though she wasn’t really mad. Griffith just shook his head with amusement, turning back to the controls. If he was thankful for anything, it was having Lena as a friend. She could lift just about anyone's spirits with a smile and her can-do attitude. The way she flitted about, practically singing her words, reminded him of a canary. Those bright yellow leggings she wore didn’t help much in that regard.

Hours in the quiet of the cockpit left Griffith a lot of time to think. Probably more than what was good for him, but he valued his time alone. No one to keep entertained, nothing needing his attention but the task at hand. Yes, Griffith thought about a lot of things while sitting there in the pilot’s seat. Today’s topic of interest was assessing just what his role in the quaint Overwatch team was.

If he were completely honest with himself, Griffith was pretty much a glorified chauffeur. Get the agents from point A to point B, make sure to be on time with the pick-up, get them all back to base in as low a piece count as possible. There were yet to be any grievous injuries aboard the Rig, and Griffith thanked his lucky stars for that. Blood stains were a pain to get out of upholstery. He was never required to set foot off of his ship, and therefore didn’t really mingle with the agents, his place right there in the cockpit. These habits carried over to life on base, and it wasn’t like Griffith didn’t desire to interact with them. He was just  _ painfully _ socially awkward, and in the rare times he crossed someone’s path, he had no idea what to say. So instead, he chose to make himself scarce. The agents didn’t seem to mind this, and while they’d never blatantly ignore him, none made any move to try getting close to the boy.

Besides Lena, that was. But given their history, she hardly counted. Anyone else would have probably been met with crushing defeat at trying to draw the man out of his shell when he first arrived on base. Griffith really couldn’t tell if he was thankful or not that no one had decided to approach him.

  
It took him a moment to realize his hand had subconsciously come up to toy at the dog tags draped down his scrawny chest, twisting the chain and fiddling with the metal plates. Quickly smoothing them and righting the chain, he pulled his hands away. His thoughts were going to take him down a bad road, and instead of continuing on that tangent, Griffith decided the silence was edging at his easily frayed nerves. Pulling out a small square case, he opened it, revealing several old fashioned CD disks. Selecting one at random, he popped it into the ancient CD player he had installed himself in the Rig’s console, and kicked back to relax as old music filled the space of the cockpit. There were still a couple hours yet to go until they reached point B.


	2. Clay Pidgeon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Action scenes are hard to write. I hope it doesn't suck too much :')

The information that Griffith had been given was minimal, detail on a need-to-know basis. They were going to investigate reports of strange activity at an old omnium. Easy reconnaissance mission that shouldn’t take more than half an hour. It was Griffith’s duty to get them there and home, sweet and simple.

Drop off had been smooth, a nice patch of open ground next to the abandoned cell offering ample space to land. The rest of the area was wild and overgrown, nature flourishing without humanity’s touch. One of the few places humankind wanted to keep their hands off of. His orders had been straightforward enough; keep an aerial view, report anything suspicious. Eyes peeled, Griffith hovered high above the omnium, waiting for his cue to come back down. It was difficult to know what was going on inside, but the idle chatter that filtered through the coms helped Griffith’s vivid imagination fill in the gaps.

“Hey, we’re not at risk of radiation poisoning or anything, are we?” McCree drawled over the system. 

“While radiation is still present, the Omnium has been down long enough that for the most part, it shouldn’t be any threat,” Winston explained. Griffith could just pick up the sounds of him setting up his equipment, echoing just so that he must have been in a large room. “Just incase there is any danger present, Mercy and Lucio both have Geiger Counters. We won’t be staying longer than an hour, either. So don’t worry, McCree, I don’t believe you’ll be growing a replacement for your prosthetic any time soon.”

“Everything’s still good on our end!” Lucio sang out, shortly followed by a ‘same here’ from Mercy.

“Well, that’s fine and dandy. My metal bits just add to my charm anyway, eh Hanzo?”

There was only cold silence that followed for a solid minute, the Shimada heir not bothering to reply. McCree seemed to have thought maybe he hadn’t heard him, but he didn’t earn any response after asking. 

“Hanzo, everything okay over there?” Winston finally asked. Griffith was wondering if maybe something had happened, but almost instantly came a reply.

“Yes.” Hanzo said simply, sounding unperturbed. “No signs of anything strange in the east sections.” A low whistle pitched in, breaking the quiet.

“Someone’s in the doghouse,” Lucio spoke under his breath, in a voice that clearly wasn’t meant to be overheard.

“Your com’s still on, Lucio.”

“...Oops.”

The rest of the conversation mostly consisted of Winston sharing some of the readings in a lame attempt to cover the awkwardness of McCree trying to get Hanzo to at least acknowledge him. He quit after the third unsuccessful attempt, the assassin refusing to even humor him in the form of an insult, although that sharp tongue could offer many. The Japanese man was quite ruthless when he desired to be. Griffith felt for McCree, wondering what the outlaw did to upset the other. They’d seemed to finally be getting on so well, too.

It was about 15 minutes in when Hanzo spoke again, a startling shout over the coms.

**_“Ambush!”_ **

Griffith shot upright from where he had been reclined in the pilot’s seat, brows furrowing in confusion. Looking down, he saw nothing unusual on the outside.

“It’s Talon, inside the Omnium. The whole thing must be a trap, everybody get out now!”

Down below, something inside the decrepit factory exploded in a vibrant display of red and orange. Shrapnel flew sky-high, and impulsively Griffith backed off with a sharp breath. Up in the air like this, he was a big old bullseye asking to be shot at by something meant for armored airships. Backing off and dropping low, Griffith continued watching the events unfolding on the ground.

“Well that burnt the hairs off my ass!”

Lucio was always so lively during a battle. If Griffith didn’t know any better, he’d have said the ex freedom fighter liked being in the thick of it. 

This had to be the worst part for Griffith. Not that he’d ever dare to complain, because he was certain it was far worse for the ones who actually had to be  _ in  _ the fray, but at least they could do something. From up here, he could only watch as everything went down, unequipped with anything to assist the team. He’d once briefly debated about attaching missile launchers to the Rig, but deemed it too dangerous for any actual practicality. She was but a carrier ship after all, meant for taking hits but definitely not for dealing them.

“The Omnium’s full of them rat bastards, make a break for the woods!” McCree commanded. No one argued this plan of action, and Griffith just caught the flash of red of the sharpshooter’s serape disappear into the treeline, followed by five more familiar bodies, recognizable even from this height. 

Griffith realized that this posed a problem. The woods offered the agents a bit more freedom and even grounding to combat Talon, but was far from the designated pick up location. Turning to a small screen set up separately from the Rig’s built-in tech, he switched it on. It came to life, and immediately sought the six points that flashed bright green on the map that filtered to life, tracking where the agents were. If he lost them under the cover of the trees, they were screwed.

“This is good and all for a temporary fix, but how are we supposed to get out of here now? We can’t keep running, they’ll catch us soon!” It seemed Tracer noticed the issue at hand, as well. 

“We’ll have to make our way back towards the Omnium, hold them off there until--”

“We can’t go back,” Hanzo cut off Winston, his voice bordering breathlessness. “There’s too many of them. They will try to outflank us again. This time, they might be successful. With their numbers this great, we cannot risk that.”

The flood of people coming out of the abandoned omnium was overwhelming, a gush of black water trickling out onto the lush green of nature’s claim and disappearing into the cover of the woods where the agents sought shelter. Hanzo was right, and there was no way to land there without certain death or capture. Griffith gritted his teeth with a noise of frustration.

“We weren’t prepared for something of this scale, we aren’t going to last long like this!” Lena’s voice warbled high with stress, and Griffith felt his heart clench as he realized there was another option. He couldn’t just sit here and listen to these people, his  _ friend _ die; he had to act. 

_ ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ _

Hesitating as his mind raced, Griffith switched his microphone on, adjusting the mouthpiece carefully while his other hand grasped at the dog tags, as if some religious symbol he were about to pray to. If he were religious, now wouldn’t have been a bad time to pray.

“Can everybody try to stay put?” Griffith asked, flipping the hover off and taking complete control of the ship. His heart felt like it was hammering its way up his throat, but this was no time to be meek. “You should have some ground on the enemy, I can make an attempt to come to you.”

“Griffith, there’s too much tree cover here. If things go wrong, the Rig could crash or you could get caught in the crossfire--”

“Look, there’s not really time to figure something else out. I don’t need much, just a gap big enough to attempt a landing there, it’s probably our best shot. You said it yourself, you guys can’t keep running. No one was prepared for a firefight. Even if you guys could make it back to open ground, the moment I land, the Rig will be crawling with Talon’s men,” Griffith’s words came quick, urgent as they donned the severity of the situation upon him. “Lena, let me do this. I can get to you, trust me.  _ Let me do this. _ ”

There were a few moments of silence, and Griffith’s gut churned uncertainly.

“......Okay.” Lena yielded. “I believe you, Griffith,” Something rung in her tone, but right now the redhead couldn’t place it, too focused on orienting himself in the direction of the grounded agents. “Tracer, holding position.”

What had surprised him more was when he heard the others chime in. 

“Sound’s a helluva lot better than the alternative. McCree, holding position.”

“Shimada, Hanzo. Holding position.”

“Mercy, Lucio, and Winston here,” came a familiar Swiss accent. “We are with you, Mr. Erhart.”

Griffith tried desperately not to think of all of the responsibility that had just come down upon his slim, freckly shoulders.

“Alright. I’ll let you know when I find something, just hang tight.” 

It took no time to begin circling where the tracking screen showed the agents to be. Lena had been right; the tree cover was dense in the thick forest, and finding a way down to allow the agents to board wasn’t going to be fun. A few circles around revealed nothing promising, and Griffith grit his teeth in agitation. He didn’t know how much time they had, but it couldn’t be much, he needed to  _ land. _

Out of the corner of his eye, Griffith caught the edge of a break in the canopy of the trees that just allowed him to glimpse the ground. There.

_ ‘That’ll have to do.’ _

“I found a way in just to the Northeast, not even a quarter mile away. Can you make it there?”

“I think we can manage that,” came Lena’s voice. Griffith could hear her pistols firing in the background.

“Heads up, though; looks like Reaper’s shown up for the firefight.” There was a sound of distaste on Winston’s end of the com, Griffith wondering if the two had met before. He was aware that Gibraltar had been attacked by Talon just before recall, but the details had been hazy at best.

“Reaper? Ya gotta be  _ kiddin’  _ me!” Came Lucio’s exasperated response. 

“Maybe someone told him the scenery was lovely this time of year?” McCree jested. 

“This isn’t time for your stupid jokes, McCree,” Hanzo’s voice rasped irritably as he addressed the sharpshooter. It was the middle of a battle, but he still hadn’t let go of whatever pissed him off. Damn, that man could hold a grudge. Mildly worried that an argument might start, Griffith cut in.

“Not really the time for chit-chat either, guys. Save it for when you’re all aboard, I’m coming down.”

Approaching the point closer, it was blatantly obvious that descending would be easier from the east. It’d be a tricky maneuver to keep the branches from trapping the Rig, but it was doable. It had to be. Too many lives were on the line for it not to be.

Coming in, Griffith slowed significantly as he began to breach the dense foliage that engulfed the Rig. The branches swayed with the force coming from the airship, and the soft tap of them against the sides were like fingers, prodding at the man made intrusion. Getting down wouldn’t be the hard part, though, gravity using its pull to help guide the hefty craft to earth. Coming to a standstill, Griffith brought her down, the landing far more graceful than someone would expect of a ship of such bulky design.

Hearing the high whirring of internal mechanisms firing down, Griffith shot up, nearly tripping over his own legs as he exited the cockpit and made his way to the back loading hatch.

Flipping the hatch’s switch, it creaked loudly as it dropped the loading ramp. Griffith half-expected to see men in black clothing come scrabbling in at the sides, but to his relief no such thing happened. The ramp finished dropping with a thud against the dry ground, showing an empty space of dirt and plants. Trotting out to the end of the ramp, the man pulled off his sunglasses, still perched on his nose. It was too dark down here for those, the sunlight having to struggle to dapple the dirt beneath his boot.

“I’m down, get here as fast as you can. Talon hasn’t reached me yet, but it won’t be long til they’re here, I’m sure.”

If anyone responded, Griffith didn’t hear it. Something caught his attention, a loud rustle coming from his left. Anxious, Griffith backed up the ramp cautiously. It may have been an ally, but unused to being on the ground and potentially in direct line of fire, his subconscious niggled fearfully in the back of his mind.

_ Enemy, danger, run. _

It was soothing to instead see the flowing red of a certain man’s peculiar choice in accessories. McCree. The cowboy looked just as thankful to see Griffith, though he was probably more happy for the ship than the pilot himself.

McCree looked at the younger man, opening his mouth as though to speak. He didn’t get the first syllable out as something shot out and struck him, his body seizing with a shout as he was electrocuted. A high powered taser? It happened so quickly, Griffith could only stand there, stunned as McCree hit the ground faster than the redhead could process. 

A deep, throaty laughter made Griffith’s blood curdle. It’s timbre was the epitome of cruel, sending every hair on end, and was accompanied by the heavy thump of thick-soled boots. 

Griffith didn’t dare move an inch as the assailant made his way into view. 

Clothed from head to toe in black and armed to the teeth with various weaponry, his gate was leisurely. Predatory. Tossing a gun on the ground, it was still connected to the dart that was embedded in McCree. It didn’t seem to be shocking him anymore, but the outlaw was down. He twitched, groaning numbly. The man approaching him reached into his thick trench coat, pulling out two shotguns. 

_ ‘Overkill much?’ _

Griffith didn’t so much as breathe. Catching a glimpse of one of the few articles that wasn’t black, the bone white mask struck a chord in the man’s brain.

Reaper. It had to be.

“Thought you’d just get away so easily,  _ Jesse _ ?” The name was spat like venom, the infamous Talon assassin kicking McCree onto his back roughly. No acknowledgement for Griffith. It hit the pilot that Reaper must have not been aware that he had an audience, too caught up with the downed cowboy. Either that, or too cocky too think he was in any danger.

The killer let out another chuckle as he planted his foot hard on the McCree’s chest, seeming to take delight in the Overwatch agent’s pain. He pointed one of those hefty guns at his head, the man seeming to just come to some semblance of awareness as he stared down the wide barrel. If he didn’t do anything, Griffith would witness the murder of Jesse McCree.

“For what it’s worth, I did like…. Huh?”

The thump of feet caught Reaper’s attention, and just as he turned to aim at whatever was coming at him, the world blurred. Griffith grunted loudly with impact as he threw all of his unimpressive weight into a tackle, grabbing and throwing with the torque of his speed. It sent both of them tumbling to the ground, and Reaper lost grip on his guns, letting out a shout of angry Spanish. One gun misfired when it clattered to the hard-packed earth. Fortunately, it didn’t hit anything. 

_ Un _ fortunately, this freed both hands on the taller man, and Reaper grappled with Griffith as they rolled. Superior in hand to hand combat, it didn’t take much effort for Reaper to assure he came out on top, straddling Griffith with frighteningly powerful thighs. Blinking up, it took him a moment to realize the guns weren’t the only thing the wraith had lost, brain struggling to make sense of what his eyes perceived.

The peculiar mask lied a few feet away.

A gasp spilled from Griffith’s throat just as two large, clawed hands wrapped tightly around his neck, thumbs pushing hard at the center. The tips of those talons pierced his pale flesh easily, and Griffith pried at the hands desperately as he writhed. His cloudy eyes were stuck on Reaper’s face. If you could even call something like that a face.

Black threads of smoke wisped out from beneath the hood, and scars littered any expanse of actual skin that was visible, only for moments at a time before consumed by the darkness once again. A mouth full of vicious white teeth was pulled into an animalistic snarl, lips forming and dissipating in the abyssal substance. Griffith took a moment to notice that any little bit of air he could get was  _ dragging it in,  _ and could feel it settling thickly in his lungs as it aided in his suffocation. Piercing eyes bore into his, red gaze sharper than a blade. 

They were furious.

“ _ I’ll choke the life out of you, boy, _ ” Reaper’s gravelly voice seethed, and the sensation of being drained filled Griffith to the core. It was a nauseating experience, feeling sick to his stomach as his extremities tingled and went cold, while his chest burned in desperation for oxygen. Griffith wheezed and his struggles weakened. His vision was beginning to blot around the edges, swarming with black smoke, and the redhead’s heart fluttered in panic.

Griffith’s eyes watered and he kicked from beneath Reaper, but the heavier, larger frame didn’t budge above him. Griffith couldn’t really tell, between his fading eyesight and the constant shifting of the killer’s facial features, but it looked as if he were smiling. 

An arrow lodged itself into the right bicep of the man, and he growled with pain, fading out into a black-red fog just in time to miss a bullet would have pierced that monstrous head, instead splintering the wood of a nearby tree trunk. The mist swept over the fallen mask just long enough to sweep it up in it’s dark, lightless mass before slithering off into the trees like a hellborne serpent. 

Inhaling as if half-drowned, Griffith shot upright and onto his hands and knees, coughing wetly and painfully as the air and life returned to his body. A metallic flavor coated his mouth, while the heavy scent of rust pervaded his nose, unshed tears blurring his vision. 

A heavy hand on his back made Griffith recoil, turning to face a startled McCree. He jerked back in response, as if afraid that the young man would bite him.

“Whoa, there. It’s just me, you’re okay,” his tone was low and patient, as if Griffith were talking to a fearful animal. It probably wasn’t far off that mark, either, with how he was hunched over the ground, eyes wild with the drive for survival as he sucked down air. Coming back to his wits, Griffith visibly relaxed, and McCree offered a lopsided smile and a hand up. 

“Bless your heart, kid. I can’t tell if you’re brave, or just real  _ stupid,”  _ He said as Griffith took his flesh hand, pulling the smaller man to his feet with ease. Griffith noticed Hanzo a few scant yards away, an arrow nocked and on the alert for the first sign of danger.

“Takes some balls to just go and tackle a shotgun-toting lunatic like ya think you’re John Lynch.”

“Uh… Thanks?” Griffith wasn’t entirely sure if that was meant to be a compliment, looking at the rugged cowboy in bewilderment.

_ ‘Who the hell is John Lynch?’ _

He still felt a little light-headed, but McCree appeared to have completely recovered, helping steady the pilot. His face, framed by that untamed scruff, towered over Griffith by at least a head. He found it hard to hold eye contact, McCree’s the color of melted chocolate. 

“I should be thankin’ you, kid. If not for that stunt you pulled, my brains would be paintin’ the dirt right now,” 

“You can save the praises for when we’re out of here  _ alive, _ ” Hanzo snapped from where he still was at alert. 

“C’mon now, Hanzo, ya ain’t gotta be ugly about it. Just helpin’ the kid back on his feet.”

Hanzo grunted, and was about to retort smartly when the sound of movement caught their attention. All worries quickly slipped away though, when a familiar fleeting tune filtered in through the trees, carrying three more of the team into the clearing almost alarmingly fast. Lucio, followed by Mercy and Winston all but tumbled out of the heavy flora that gripped at their feet. Lucio seemed to be having a particularly bad time; those skates weren’t exactly made for going off the beaten path. He cursed as he bent to pick sticks out of the joints of his gear. Winston seemed fine, although a little tired. He cradled some of his equipment in one enormous arm. It had to be hard for the scientist to leave most of it behind.

“Oh thank god, you’re all here!” Mercy sounded like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders, those lovely mechanical wings flaring.

“Looks like you guys had a rough time of it,” Griffith said hoarsely, noting the various scuffs and grass stains that covered the agent’s bodies and clothing.

“Well, we got separated and had to take a little detour,” Her voice was almost disturbingly chipper. Griffith snorted softly, a little amazed that the doctor still seemed optimistic after how horrifically wrong the mission had gone. Her expression changed, though, blond brows creasing as her gaze dropped just below his chin. “Oh dear, your neck,” Mercy sounded concerned, and Griffith rubbed at the scratches with a hand, ignoring his urge to grimace at the sting as the leather of his gloves aggravated the still-seeping wounds.

“Don’t worry, they’re not that bad.”

Then, Griffith noticed that there was still someone missing.

“Wait, where’s Tracer?”

“She hasn’t shown up yet?”

Griffith’s stomach dropped, his mind racing to the worst case scenarios. He could hear gunshots whizzing through the dense forest. They were running out of time.

“Tracer? Where are you?” Griffith called over the coms, trying not to let his imagination conjure terrible images of all the awful things that could have happened to the woman. 

No response but the sounds of startled birds and distant gunfire. The others were beginning to take on an air of worry.

_ “Lena--” _

“Here, love!” The earpiece crackled to life, making Griffith cringe. “Sorry about that, got tripped up by a little spider’s web, is all. En route now, be there in a wink!”

Griffith let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding.

“Good. Everyone else is here, I’m going to get the Rig up and going. You’d better hurry,” he cautioned. 

“I’m not anything if I’m not fast. Just watch your own rear until I get there!” She responded, just as bright as usual. Griffith felt much better, taking her banter as a good indication that she was okay. Turning to the agents that stood next to him, he tried to ignore the lump in his throat. He did a good job at keeping his voice steady, even if he felt anything but. A person could only be so okay after nearly having their soul devoured, and that was without being miles outside the metaphorical comfort zone as it was.

“Um… Alright. Until she get’s here, this is what we’re gonna do.” 

Griffith stopped for a moment, realizing he may have overstepped his bounds by commanding the agents, but to his surprise they only looked to him, as though awaiting his guidance. Swallowing uncertainly, he continued, thoughts racing a mile a minute as he concocted a plan.

“Hanzo, McCree, shoot anyone down that isn’t Tracer. Keep it clear so she can get on safely. You too, Winston. Your barrier projector will help keep you all safe from return-fire.” The large ape nodded, and they all followed Griffith into the Rig. Hanzo and McCree took their positions at the mouth of the hatch, waiting at the ready while Winston sat down the scant amount of equipment he’d managed to salvage. “Lucio, assist them in any way you can.”

The audio medic saluted enthusiastically. “Yes, sir!” 

The sound of McCree firing made Griffith flinch as the first unlucky Talon agents made their way into the small clearing. Alongside it, the  _ twang  _ of a bowstring sung as a wicked head of one of those arrows found it’s mark.

“Mercy, I need you over here,” Griffith jogged over to where the hatch’s switch was. “The  _ moment _ Tracer gets onboard, I need you to flip this. It’ll close the hatch, but it’ll take a few seconds.” Looking over to where the others stood at alert, Griffith raised his voice so they’d hear him over the noise. “You four keep that door guarded until it is completely closed. Understood?” 

“Crystal clear!” Winston called over his shoulder, just as his barrier activated.

“What about you?” Mercy asked. Pushing his bangs out of his face, Griffith backed away, further into the ship.

“I’m getting things set to get us the hell out of here. Tell me as soon as Tracer’s on.”

Griffith could faintly hear the ‘ping’ of bullets ricocheting off the side of the Rig as he strode down the center aisle. Useless, the armored ship was nearly indestructable from the outside by moderate artillery. It was like a predator trying to eat a turtle, unless you got at the weak points, it was going to take a lot to do any significant damage. That being said, Griffith still wanted to get the ship out and above the trees as quickly as possible; even a turtle’s shell could be crushed by the right predator.

Entering the cockpit, the door swung shut behind him with a loud clang, taking his seat and fiddling with the controls. He could feel his hands shaking, but forced his grip as he brought the thrusters to a hover. He had just enough mind to give the agents warning over the coms.

“Careful back there, I’m about to turn her around.”

Trying to keep the ship stable, he slowly turned so that he was now facing where the back had previously been. Bullets briefly pinged off of the canopy’s glass, and Griffith jerked back even if they didn’t so much as knick the outer surface, too weak to penetrate. It’d take something with a lot more kick to get through. Looking down, Griffith spied a couple of the enemy’s forces slipping through the trees. They didn’t make it far, though, the pilot just catching a glint of blue and yellow as they dropped like flies.

The com came to life in his ear.

“Tracer’s onboard, Mr. Erhart!”

The news made him smile briefly, and even more so when his friend’s voice came shortly after Mercy’s. 

“Let’s get her airborne, Griffith!” 

“You got it.”

Down below, Talon’s lackies poured out like vermin through the trees, trying futilely to stop the ship from taking off as Griffith upped the power of the thrusters. They didn’t have the luxury to let her warm up more gradually, and the Rig bellowed out her displeasure as they began to ascend. 

“Sorry girl,” Griffith muttered through clenched teeth, feeling the labored chugging through his grip. “Promise I’ll give you a good detail when we get back, just get us out of here!”

Angling the ship up to face the opening in the foliage, now came the tricky part. 

“Try not to fall off,” Was the only warning Griffith gave over the coms as the Rig lurched forward. He couldn’t swear to it, but he thought he could hear a shout from the back of the ship as it jumped, moving as sudden as a nervous horse that’d been stung by a wasp.

“Everybody still on?” Griffith asked.

“Yep, we’re all here! The hatch is closed, too,” Came Lena’s voice. “You did it, Griffith!” She cried happily. Griffith huffed in exasperation at her high spirits. 

“Wait to pop the champagne, we’re not out of the woods yet.”

The ship lumbered forward through the close-knit trees. Having to jig the bulky aircraft left and right to avoid getting stuck, it was a slow process, but Griffith could no longer hear the sounds of gunfire peppering the ship’s hull. Elation swelled in Griffith’s chest. They were going to make it, they were going to get out of this!

Purple. It was all that Griffith really had time to register, sticking out garishly against the green of tree leaves. In nature, bright colors meant danger. Grey eyes widened a fraction. 

_ Pting, pting!  _

Instinct more than skill made Griffith’s reflexes jerk the ship’s steering hard to the left as those sounds rung out. A pair of holes, about the size of quarters punctured the thick cover of the Rig’s canopy, small cracks just barely spidering out from the entry points. One, two kicks jolted the man’s body back, his headset flying off his face and clattering to the floor in pieces. Something hot blanketed the right side of Griffith’s face, and he couldn’t see out of that eye. The sudden sway of the ship was accompanied by a loud scrape of branches brushing against its underbelly. But with that, they rose above the treeline and into open sky. 

They had escaped.

A full minute passed, and adrenaline pumped hard through the man’s veins, his grip deathly tight on the steering mechanism. But as the sense of danger faded, Griffith felt a hot thrum in the right side of his upper body. Something was horribly wrong. As the aircraft settled into smoother flight, Griffith clumsily hit the autopilot, noticing a smear of red his hand left on the controls. A high pitched whistle came through the holes in the canopy, but thankfully did not continue to break further; the Rig flew slow and low enough that it shouldn’t cause issues. Crimson droplets dotted the floor as he pushed up to stand. The cockpit visually swayed and went sideways, Griffith scrabbling at the arm of his piloting seat to keep himself from falling over. His balance was shot, and he felt nauseous as he stumbled towards the door. Help. Griffith needed help.

Grabbing the handle, he went to push out just as someone on the other side pulled. Griffith pitched forward, dizzy and helpless as his surroundings spun.

“Griffith! That was  _ amazing, _ Axel would be so…. Griffith?” Lena trailed off as she found her arms full of the redhead. It only took her a moment to see the blood that practically poured out of the side of his face, where his right eye should have been. Her scream rang like a siren out to the others, setting them immediately on alert.

_ “MERCY!” _

Lena all but carried Griffith out towards the passenger’s cabin, the sensation of movement making Griffith feel as though he were about to throw up. He wanted to tell his friend to stop, but the words stuck in his throat, instead groaning as he tripped over his own foot and started to fall, Lena barely managing to hold him upright at the sudden dead weight. Mercy walked towards the two, concern painting her angelic features.

“What’s wrong, Lena? Is everything alri--,” A gasp, followed by a fraction of silence. “Oh no...”

He couldn’t tell if he had just closed his eye or blacked out for a moment, but Griffith suddenly found himself being arranged on empty seats as he could hear Mercy and Lucio barking orders, feeling the thick jacket stripped from his frame. He blinked his good eye, hissing from the sensitivity as he stared up into the cabin lights. It was temporary, though, as Lucio’s head blocked out the light to inspect him.

“Looks like it came clean through the zygomatic bone, but I…. I can’t tell if it did any damage to the brain. God, what a mess…” Lucio’s voice lacked the normal upbeat note it usually had. Mercy sounded from somewhere outside of Griffith’s vision, and he turned to try and look, but hands held his face in place. “Hold still, man. You’re gonna be fine, just try to stay still.”

“Check and see if the one in his chest did,” Mercy instructed. Lucio released him and a second later, Griffith could feel the cold metal of scissors (where had those come from?) against his abdomen. His stomach muscles twitched as the black under armour he had been wearing was cut and peeled open like a zip-up hoodie, exposing a weeping hole that bled furiously on a tattooed pectoral. A hand wormed under him, and the Brazilian cussed loudly.

“No exit wound, the bullet’s still in there. I can’t tell if it hit the lung. If it collapses we may be in trouble.”  

Griffith zoned out a little, the buzz in his head making it hard to hear much outside of his immediate vicinity, but he could pick up sobbing. He had never heard her cry before, but he could tell it was Lena. His head was starting to ache, and he squeezed his eye shut.

The entire seating began to shake as the Rig hit turbulence, and every shake began to send threads of pain through his body as Griffith’s injuries began to catch up with him, the initial shock wearing off. 

“Lena, I know you want to be by his side, but we need you to pilot the aircraft. We need to get back to base and get him to an operation table as quickly as possible,” Mercy said lowly to the other woman. “His life may very well depend upon it. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes,” She managed to choke out. Griffith took the silence as a sign that she had walked away.

_ ‘Good,’  _ he thought. She didn’t need to see this.

“Lucio,” Mercy addressed the medic, and Griffith’s good eye flicked up to see her just within his view. She was looking at him. 

She looked so calm and analytical, as if she weren’t gazing down into a face that was half shot off. “Stop the bleeding from the chest wound, keep pressure on it while I stabilize the head wound. We have to stop the bleeding, at this rate he’ll die of exsanguination before we get back to the watchpoint.” She turned sharply to whomever was closest to her, which happened to be McCree. “Jesse, there’s an emergency medical kit that should be located between the galley and the cockpit. Please, fetch it for me. Quickly!”

It wasn’t even a minute before the cowboy trotted back, the kit in tow. Mercy all but ripped it open and immediately began rifling through it’s contents, the rustle coming from the seat just above the injured man’s head. Mercy frowned.

“Not optimal, but it will have to do. Here, Lucio, take this.” She reached over Griffith to hand the audio medic what appeared to be gauze and a bandage.

Everything seemed to be going too fast, and yet too slow; Mercy was suddenly cradling his head, noting an immediate increase of pain as she began to work on the wound. His jaw clenched as a sound rose and caught in his throat. This action only forced more pressure on the injury, though, and white hot agony flared through Griffith, his small body tensing on the seats. One of Lucio’s arms came down like a bar over the top of his jean-clad thighs in restraint, while the other pressed a palm firmly over the wound on his chest. The pain from that was miniscule to what he felt from his head, the kind of pain so intense that it left him winded, unable to even scream as he sucked in a precious breath. Griffith subconsciously grabbed the first thing his gloved hand touched, which happened to be Mercy’s forearm.

“Can you not use your Caduceus Staff?” That was Hanzo’s voice.

“The damage is too extensive for it to be effective as of yet, with anything short of a revival. It isn’t nearly charged enough for that. Once he’s stabilized, I’ll use it until we return and can properly get him medical attention.”

Things went quieter as the two medical experts went to work. Griffith took greedy breaths, a feeling of weakness settling as a tangible weight in his body. He let out an agonized moan, his free hand clawing at the leather of the seats, unable to do much else but lay there as the pair worked to save his life.

“You’re doing so good, Mr. Erhart. Deep breaths, just stay with us. I know it hurts, you’re doing so well,” Mercy praised as she wiped away excess blood to get a better look at the injury itself. It was a small but effective form of comfort, Griffith holding her arm just a little more firmly. 

“His chest is patched up, we need something to cover him with and keep him warm. Is there a blanket somewhere?” Lucio looked around. 

“Here,” McCree shuffled for a moment as he slipped the red serape from his neck and shoulders, leaning in Griffith’s line of sight as he held it out to the other man. “Will this work for now?”

“That’ll work fine! Thanks!” 

Lucio grabbed the fabric and settled it over Griffith’s exposed torso, the shredded fabric of his undershirt still attached at the shoulders and sleeves. Even under the thick material, the pilot began to shiver uncontrollably, goosebumps rising along his sweat-sheened skin.

It used to be that the agents never looked twice at him. Now, everybody’s gaze was glued to him. They hovered, his good eye taking faces twisted in expressions varying between concentration, concern, and horror. He hated it, he decided quietly in the back of his broken skull; it felt awful. Hot, sticky. Wet. Or was that just the blood? There was so much blood. 

_ ‘That’s gonna be fun to get out of the seats…’ _

His grip on Mercy’s arm was going lax.

“Mr. Erhart! Stay with me, please. Whatever it takes, stay awake!” Something akin to fear threaded into the doctor’s words, but it was cold and Griffith felt fatigue layering onto him like a heavy blanket of snow. The blood felt too hot against his clammy flesh, almost scalding. His breathing was shallow now, and he could taste iron in his throat, thick and warm. He coughed pathetically. Small flecks of crimson spattered the front of Mercy’s uniform. His other hand came up to try and wipe it away, trembling and falling short of its mark.

“I’m sorry,” Griffith tried to choke out, but it only caused another coughing fit, his chest spasming painfully.

“Mercy, his lung’s collapsing. I think he’s going into shock!”

It felt like he was sinking into himself. Things were getting darker, the vividness of the colors around him fading, black creeping in around the edges. His lips tingled, their usual pink beginning to turn blue. A sense of dread filled him like a cup, overflowing around the edges and onto the floor. He couldn’t move. His brain screamed  _ fight,  _ but his body had already given up.  

Falling. He was falling…

_ “Griffith!” _

 

Griffith Erhart’s world went pleasantly quiet and dark.


End file.
